


Jumping the Broom, and Tripping On the Skirt

by boorishbint



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Bad Flirting, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Best Friends, Boys Will Be Boys, Friendship, Implied Relationships, Innuendo, Jealousy, Mild Language, Multi, Plans For The Future, Wedding Planning, and these boys will be looking at wedding dresses, hop on everyone it's the 1920's in moominland, they are sailors after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boorishbint/pseuds/boorishbint
Summary: The day before the wedding, the Muddler recruits Moomintroll and the Joxter to help find the Fuzzy a wedding dress.-‘Here’! The Muddler hops happily over, along the tops of what appear to be variously sized globes. The last one spins as he goes, helping to land him right at the Joxter’s feet. He holds up what looks to Moomin like an immense crumple of white cloud. ‘Try this on!’The Joxter flicks the brim of his hat, taking one stern look. ‘Ah. I will, sure,’ he says, in the exact cadence Moomin has come to know meansjog all the way on.
Relationships: Joxaren | The Joxter & Muminpappan | Moominpappa, Rådd-djuret | The Muddler/Såsdjuret | The Fuzzy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Jumping the Broom, and Tripping On the Skirt

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the very talented West's comic here on tumblr, which gave me a lot of feelings: https://girnyo2.tumblr.com/post/641959372367495168/ok-so-i-polished-that-comic
> 
> I only hope to have conveyed some of the joy this comic gave me!

Moomin looks around and the sense of dread that has been building since the Muddler had asked for help in the first place grows.

‘This,’ he says, out the corner of his mouth and to the Joxter, who stands next to him, ‘may have been a mistake, old sport.’

They’ve just climbed down the tatty rope ladder into the Muddler’s tin. It seems so much smaller from the outside and truly, Moomin reckons it’s a marvel how the Muddler has managed to fit so much nonsense in such a little place. His vast collection of… well, everything, stacks up in unsteady towers around them.

The Joxter kicks at a stray polo ball by his boot, which rolls very crookedly towards Moomin. (Pity upon the creature who had to play with that, Moomin thinks).

’What’d you reckon, then?’ The Joxter’s tail flicks, brushing against Moomin’s leg. ‘Too late to back out?’

Moomin thinks it might be, miserable a thought as it may be. He glances over, catching the Joxter’s eye. ‘We could run for it?’

‘Your fluffy arse would never get back up that ladder fast enough,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin flushes at once, deeply offended and all the fluff on his snout sticks up.

‘I could beat you!’

‘Could you?’ the Joxter asks mildly.

The wretched fellow has a habit of responding to Moomin’s threats with this same unsettling politeness that only serves to wind Moomin up further. Especially given how Moomin knows from much experience that the Joxter hasn’t a polite hair in that horrid tail of his, so he’s only doing it to be vexing.

‘I very well could!’ Moomin huffs, paws to his hips. ‘Bet I could beat you up that ladder and down again!’

‘Perhaps, but what good would that do?’ The Joxter stretches his arms up, all the way until the claws stick out his fingers for a brief moment. He’s tall, like that. ’We’d just be back here, wouldn’t we?’

This time, Moomin’s fluff sticks up from the top of ears to the back of his neck as the embarrassment floods. He tries to think of something clever to say, for he’s certainly better than the Joxter for that, but he’s interrupted by the sound of frantic squeaking.

‘I know they’re in here!’ the Muddler calls from somewhere. The tin, being round and metal, echoes his voice slightly so it’s hard to keep track of where exactly it’s coming from. ‘Not long now! Honest!’

‘Take your time,’ the Joxter calls back, swinging his paws as he casts about. His whiskers twitch; they’re dark, pointy things and most unlike Hodgkins which droop like something wilting. ‘We’re all right, aren’t we, Moomintroll?’

‘You’re all lefts,’ Moomin retorts, but the Joxter isn’t listening. Or ignoring him. Hard to tell, for the Joxter’s ears are beneath his hat so Moomin is never sure which way they’re pointing. ‘A circle of bonafide madness.’

The Joxter looks over his shoulder, grinning and a sharp tooth catches his lip. ‘Flatterer.’

‘Oh, piss off!’ Moomin kicks the polo ball himself, aiming for the Joxter but it veers now as much as it did the first time and vanishes beneath what looks like a bundle of lobster cages.

The Joxter wanders over to something that may be an armchair, were it not covered in old boots. He pokes about the top, brushing stray buckles to the floor and then promptly clambers on top of it. For a moment, it looks like the pile is too fragile to hold him and Moomin is delighted for a brief moment at the idea of the Joxter falling on his sorry arse- but sadly, it does hold him. If a bit lop-sided.

‘Comfy?’ Moomin asks, bitter.

‘Splendidly,’ the Joxter replies, reclining back and knocking his hat over his eyes. ‘Do give a shout if I’m needed.’

‘Wouldn’t waste the breath,’ Moomin grumbles, only to be entirely distracted by the Muddler who slides down the nearest stack of fraying circus programmes. ‘Where’ve you been then?’

‘Looking for the dresses, of course!’ the Muddler replies, pouting up at Moomin from beneath his pot. With eyes as large and dark as the Muddler, he does look most put out and Moomin feels a stab of guilt for not paying attention to begin with. ‘I have a collection of them somewhere, I know I- Oh! No, no!’

The Muddler scurries past Moomin, towards the Joxter where he stops and hops from one gloved foot to the other. His ears flap as he does. The Joxter, shameful bastard that he is, doesn’t even look up.

‘No, no, they’re all out of order!’ the Muddler laments. Moomin guesses he must mean the old boots, but how one is supposed to tell when a pile is in order or not is beyond him. ‘The size sevens look a terrible state now!’

There’s a shrill note to the Muddler’s voice with that, and only now the Joxter looks up. He tilts his head, eyes round and blinking.

‘Don’t go making a fuss,’ he says to the Muddler, amiably like he isn’t the one who started the fuss. ‘I’ll clear off-'

‘No, no!’ the Muddler replies, rushing forward to catch a boot that nearly falls from where the Joxter makes to move. ‘Don’t move now, not where you look so comfortable. I wouldn’t- I didn’t mean to shoo you! Just- just be careful, is all! There’s a delicate order to this.’

The Muddler replaces the boot precariously on what may be the arm of the chair. He pats it gently, seeming pleased and turns back to Moomin. The bright look on his face sours, however, when he glances down to Moomin’s feet.

‘Where’s the polo ball?’ he asks and Moomin opens his mouth, then closes it. The Muddler’s frown deepens.

‘Now… see here, the funny thing is- that is to say, I- uh- kicked it.’

‘You kicked it?’ The Muddler sounds horrified. ‘Where did it go then?’

Moomin points vaguely towards the lobster baskets. The Muddler hurries there, bending down and crawling beneath himself, all while muttering.

‘You should be more careful, you know! You can’t just move anything willy-nilly!’

He’s still muttering as he vanishes. A brief moment later, the polo ball rolls lazily back out, coming to halt between the two of them. The Muddler does not return.

Moomin immediately turns to the Joxter, the injustice of what just happened stinging.

‘You’re a terror, do you know that? You didn’t get in half as much trouble for double the crime!’

The Joxter laughs; it’s a dry noise that comes from the back of his throat, which is likely as burnt as the back of the Oshun Oxtra’s engine from all the pipeweed.

‘It’s no laughing matter, you rake!’

‘Anything that has you look at me so seriously is absolutely a laughing matter.’

Moomin goes hot again and finds he can’t quite keep the Joxter’s eye. It can be very hard to do so at the best of times, with how very blue and unnatural they are, never mind when Moomin is cross with him.

There’s a clatter from somewhere across the tin, though Moomin can’t see much around the teetering towers of knobbled copper cups and bouncy hot water bottles. He guesses it’s the Muddler, but there’s so much in here he half-wonders if there’s other creatures hiding amongst the rubbish.

‘There’s no one here but us,’ the Joxter says, like he can read Moomin’s mind and Moomin starts, up onto one foot with surprise.

‘Don’t do that!’ Moomin says hotly, trying to compose himself again. ‘How did you even-? Oh, forget it!’

‘You’ve got that look on your face,’ the Joxter says, tapping the end of his own pointy nose with one slender finger. ‘That wee frown that says you’re looking for a fight. Be a shame to punch the Muddler before his wedding day. The photos would be ruined.’

‘Well, you’ll be in them, so I guess the horse has already bolted the stable on that, hasn’t it?’

The Joxter laughs again. It makes Moomin’s throat go tight for a moment, the way the Joxter throws his head back with it and shows all his teeth.

‘Aha!’ The Muddler’s voice carries from somewhere, (Moomin hazard’s a guess), by the tin cups. ‘Here we are!’

Moomin sees the Muddler’s long, thin tail first before the rest of him blooms out of a small gap in the collection. Moomin backs up towards the Joxter’s perch to give room, for there isn’t much. The Muddler turns around and holds out the dress in his hands with great flourish. It flutters like a remarkable bird, the many layers of its skirts spread out as it goes.

He holds it then, arm stretched up as high as it’ll go to try and show the very long dress off best. He looks rather pleased.

‘What,’ Moomin struggles not to laugh, ‘on the Booble’s green earth is that?’

The Muddler’s smile drops. ‘It’s a dress?’

‘For what? A funeral?’ Moomin asks, gesturing to the immense puffed sleeves in ruffled black. The whole dress is black, even the tiny glittering beads on the front.

There’s the sound of movement behind him, and just as Moomin’s ears flick towards it, the Joxter’s chin lands on top of his head right between them. The Joxter appears to have sat up on his knees, both paws coming to Moomin’s shoulders.

‘Pinched it from the coffin, did you?’ the Joxter teases, chin digging in. Moomin swats a paw at him, but the Joxter takes no heed and stays right where he is.

‘I did not!’ The Muddler sounds horrified by the thought. ‘I just thought all those little buttons were so pretty…’

Moomin looks at the little black circles that line the ends of the sleeves and reckons they are somewhat pretty, in a dour sort of way.

‘You can’t give the Fuzzy a black wedding dress,’ Moomin says with reason, as someone must have it. The Joxter snorts, his chest pressing against the back of Moomin’s head. Moomin’s stomach takes a funny sort of turn as it does- which he ignores.

The Muddler is looking put out again.

‘Why not?’

‘Black is not for weddings!’ Moomin says, rolling his paw as he tries to think of what’s read about matrimony. ‘I’m sure it’s a sort of bad luck.’

‘We don’t want that,’ the Joxter adds, sounding strangely serious about it. Moomin rolls his eyes and feels the Joxter’s breath on the top of his ears; only the Joxter would find the idea of bad luck a matter worthy of real consideration.

‘But not just silly stuff like that!’ Moomin rushes to say, for there must be more sense given. ‘Brides wear white on their wedding day! That’s the tradition and a very important one, from what I’ve read. And you know-‘

Moomin gestures towards his face, a little embarrassed.

‘Veils, and such,’ he finishes, quieter and the Joxter is laughing against him again.

‘A veil?’ The Muddler sounds most unsure about that.

The Joxter leans more forward, both paws sliding along Moomin’s shoulders until his elbows are there, and his chin digs in more deeply. Moomin grumbles, but is ignored. It’s distracting though, pressed up so close all Moomin can think about is that horrid smell of clove oil the Joxter always reeks of.

 _If he thinks that helps the stench of tobacco and whatever dark crevice he’s been napping in,_ Moomin thinks, _then he’s sorely mistaken._

‘Surely you’ve got something else knocking about?’ the Joxter offers. The Muddler drops the black dress, looking thoughtful.

‘Perhaps… in the other collection?’

With that, both he and the black dress disappear back into the madness.

Moomin shakes his snout, before looking up. All he can see is the brim of the Joxter’s hat.

‘How many collections do you think he has?’ the Joxter asks him, seemingly unbothered by how annoying he’s being. Moomin crosses his arms, only to knock into the Joxter’s paws where they hang aimlessly.

‘Too many for a sensible gentle-creature to have,’ Moomin says and the Joxter hums, sounding thoughtful. ‘Honestly, who dithers about with dresses?’

‘Dithers?’ The Joxter is smirking; Moomin just knows it, from the tone of his voice to the way his chin points. ‘Careful now, Moomintroll, or you’ll sound like that old headmistress.’

Moomin scoffs, but knowing a scold is worth nothing, he simply takes one large step forward.

The Joxter crashes to the floor in a jumble. Moomin turns to see him on his back, hat floating down on top of him. The Joxter’s tail thumps against the floor as he leans his head up, catching Moomin’s eye.

‘Just once,’ Moomin says, truly disappointed, ‘I’d love to hear you yelp.’

The Joxter’s eyebrows, bushy and dark, rise at once.

‘Would you, now? There are nicer ways to go about it.

‘Oh, really!’ Moomin blusters, mortified. ‘You know very well I meant nothing of that sort!’

The Joxter doesn’t answer him, instead getting up and stretching out his back with two paws. He waves his hat once before replacing it, but pays no heed at all to the dust that’s gathered all over his coat from the floor. Moomin resists the urge to go over and slap it off himself. It’s not like the mad creature would appreciate it.

They both look up at the sound of a commotion coming their way.

‘Here’! The Muddler hops happily over, along the tops of what appear to be variously sized globes. The last one spins as he goes, helping to land him right at the Joxter’s feet. He holds up what looks to Moomin like an immense crumple of white cloud. ‘Try this on!’

The Joxter flicks the brim of his hat, taking one stern look.

‘Ah. I will, sure,’ he says, in the exact cadence Moomin has come to know means _jog all the way on._ The Joxter has always been adept at sarcasm.

The Muddler’s sad little face is remarkably effective.

‘Oh, but please! Please, you must! You’re the only one who’ll fit in it!’

The Joxter glances to Moomin, looking very uncertain and clearly in want of help. Moomin, happily, offers none.

‘What does it matter if we fit in it? Surely it’s whether or not the Fuzzy will fit in it?’ the Joxter says, now eying the dress with much trepidation.

‘But I want to be very sure it’s the right one!’ the Muddler pleads, before he starts to go pink. He’s got very thin fur on his face and it always shows. ‘I want her to _like_ it, and it’s so hard to tell when it’s like this.’

He waves the dress a bit, causing it to flounce nicely but Moomin must admit, it does look rather more like a dropped meringue than a true dress, given how long it is and how short the Muddler stands.

‘We have to be sure, Joxter,’ Moomin says, shrugging like there’s nothing to be done. The Joxter looks at him, alarmed.

‘What daft notion of that means I have to wear it though?’

‘You’ll be like the model!’ the Muddler says plainly, like such a thing were not even the slightest bit ridiculous. ‘I can’t have my poor Fuzzy do it. I told her it would be a surprise.’

The Muddler’s tone is practically begging and going by the way the Joxter’s whiskers droop, it’s working. The Joxter has always had a soft spot for the Muddler, Moomin knows but thinking about it seems to take the smallest bit of fun from all this.

‘But…’ The Joxter waves to what Moomin thinks might be the bodice. ‘Look at all those finicky buttons and pearls. They’ll be an age to do up, I couldn’t possibly be bothered with all that.’

‘I’ll do them for you!’ the Muddler replies and Moomin expects the Joxter to come up with another cock-and-bull reason to weasel out of it, but surprisingly, the Joxter lights up.

‘Will you?’ The Joxter starts to unbutton his own coat and Moomin splutters. ‘Go on then!’

‘That’s it?’ Moomin stares, baffled as the Joxter looks at him.

‘What else could there be?’ the Joxter replies, that maddeningly polite tone to his voice again.

‘But- but it’s a dress!’

The Joxter blinks, owlish almost, and offers no further explanation.

He sheds his green coat, letting it flop to the floor in a heap and Moomin doesn’t mean to, (he really doesn’t), but he can’t help but stare.

The Joxter’s idea of a bath is to fall off the Oshun Oxtra the odd time, fully clothed and Moomin can count the amount of times he’s seen the Joxter without his coat on one paw. To be very honest, Moomin was half-convinced the buttons on the Joxter’s coat were crusted shut with the dirt he carries with him.

Without it, he’s a mostly slinky fellow except for where his stomach curves from evenings spent doing a great deal of nothing. The coat comes to about his knees, and now it’s off Moomin can see there’s even more patches than first thought on the Joxter’s pinstriped trousers.

Or, previously pinstriped, as they’re so faded they’re almost all one colour save for the patches, which naturally are various colours with no rhyme or reason. He reminds Moomin vividly of an old rag doll from the orphanage, hobbled together out of spare parts.

The Joxter rolls back the tattered sleeves of his shirt, that may have orange once upon a time but is now a very sorry yellow.

‘Chuck it over, Muddler!’

The Muddler makes a happy noise, before clambering onto the boot pile the Joxter had originally been dozing upon. He stands up on his feet, which puts him a good head and a bit above the Joxter standing. He bundles the dress up, like it were a jumper.

It’s the most preposterous thing Moomin has ever seen.

‘You’re not actually going to wear it, are you?’

The Joxter turns to him, grinning. Coat gone, his shirt hangs open enough to show off the shark-tooth hanging around his neck, which winks like a coin. He removes his hat and throws it; Moomin catches it without thinking.

‘That is rather the point of a dress, Moomintroll.’

‘But- but!’

Moomin seethes; it’s not a drop of fun if the Joxter isn’t going to be unhappy about wearing the thing.

The Muddler helps throw the dress over the Joxter’s head. It seems a bit of a struggle to figure out what goes where, but very soon the Joxter’s dark paws are through the sleeves and the whole thing unfurls down over him. 

Moomin hates to admit it, but the Muddler may have had a point. Now it’s on someone proper, the dress is a lot less floofy than first suggested.

Looking at it, Moomin doesn’t think it’s all that different from the dresses he’s seen out in the towns or at the King’s party. On the Joxter, it comes halfway down below his knees and the end of it is all uneven; but Moomin assumes in an ‘on purpose’ manner, as it reminds him a little of the edge of a clam shell.

The Joxter smoothes down the bodice. The thing is absurd, covered in lace and beads, pearls and bows even in some places, like the very ends of the sleeves. The Joxter looks rather like he’s rolled about someone’s jewellery box while covered in tree sap.

‘What do you think?’ the Joxter asks him and Moomin is taken aback of having his opinion asked.

The Joxter turns to face him properly, giving his back to the Muddler who bends down to start buttoning. Moomin stares, at first a quite speechless by it.

‘You…’ Moomin hovers; there’s a laugh brewing. ‘Well…’

‘A real tomato, huh?’ The Joxter shakes his hips, causing the end of the dress to sway and all its tiny details to glitter.

That does it, and Moomin bursts out laughing.

‘You look mad! Stark raving mad!’ he manages, through tears because now he’s started he can’t quite stop.

There couldn’t be anything less bridal about how the Joxter looks. While the dress in itself is very lovely, and very much what Moomin had pictured for the Fuzzy, the Joxter is not at all inclined to its delicacies. 

He’s never been the tidy sort, but in something designed for tidy the Joxter’s messiness stands out like a stain. His raggy fur comes so high up his cheeks it sticks out in odd angles almost as long as his whiskers. 

The Joxter laughs, too. Rasping, almost like a cough but Moomin is warmed by it all the same. It’s a rather pleasant noise, when Moomin is not the one the Joxter is laughing at.

Once the Muddler is finished, the Joxter steps away and does a single twirl. The dress flares out, round and wide like a plate, and shows off the Joxter’s shabby trousers beneath.

‘All right, Muddler,’ the Joxter says, holding his arms off to show off the lacy sleeves. They’re so fine, Moomin can see the Joxter’s shirt still and the black fur of his arms. ‘How are the glad rags looking?’

The Muddler looks deep in thought. He’s got one of his tiny paws on his round chin, looking the Joxter up and down.

‘Do you think there’re enough shiny things on it?’

Moomin thinks any more and the Moon will mistake the Fuzzy as a star and marry her instead.

‘Can’t be sure,’ the Joxter says and he gives a quick look over his shoulder, smiling at Moomin. ‘Mymble always says the more the better.’

Moomin’s remaining giggles dry up. ‘The Mymble? With all those children?’

‘The very same,’ the Joxter answers, now inspecting the bows on his sleeves. ‘But I suppose she would say that.’

‘Haven’t seen her in a while,’ Moomin says, mostly to himself. Perhaps not that long a while, maybe even a week but long enough for Moomin to have thought… well, that things had _moved along._

‘Busy doll, isn’t she?’ the Joxter says, not noticing Moomin’s sudden moodiness. ‘But she’s got plenty of dresses like this. Well, maybe not quite so clean but certainly shiny.’

‘Can’t say I’ve noticed,’ Moomin grumbles and the Joxter snorts again. It makes his long nose scrunch, right up between his eyes.

‘Not exactly one for the ladies though, are you?’ he teases and Moomin flushes at once, affronted. ‘Too busy with your snout in a book.’

‘Like you’d know if I were or not!’ Moomin retorts, not wanting to give the Joxter any satisfaction in thinking he’s hit a nerve. ‘Hardly going to go tell you anything spiffing like that, am I?’

‘Very true,’ the Joxter drawls. He tilts his head, eyes a little darker and Moomin is reminded of a cat sneaking upon some poor bird. ‘I suppose you’ve got lots of saucy secrets, hidden away in that big clever brain of yours.’

Moomin is about to call the Joxter something not very clever at all, but the Muddler interrupts as though neither of them were speaking at all.

‘It’s very long, isn’t it?’ he says, biting his lip and his downy nose twitches. ‘My sweet Fuzzy will trip four times over!’

‘It’ll be all right if you cut it off at the knees, sure,’ the Joxter offers, swinging the skirt again.

‘I’ll cut you off at the knees,’ Moomin mutters, under his breath and still cross.

They all look up at the sound of Hodgkins’ voice.

‘Where in the blazes have you all gotten to?’

His head appears at the top of the tin, frowning already as he so often is. His mouth is open with what would likely be a scold of some sort, but the words never come. Instead, his dark eyes go from one to the next; starting with the Muddler, along to Moomin, and finally upon the Joxter, who gives a twirl.

‘Do you like it?’ he asks brightly, spinning on the heel of his boot like a maiden might. ‘I reckon the ivory does my whiskers no favours, myself.’

Hodgkins looks for a moment like he may say something after all, but only for a moment before he shakes his head and walks away again.

‘Wait here! I have an idea!’ says The Muddler, like nothing has happened and he hops down, disappearing once again amongst the piles.

Moomin leans against the nearest stack of… whatever. He crosses his arms and chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. The Joxter is being very distracting, his long tail swishing underneath the dress like a broom.

Moomin nearly says it. Decides against it. Then immediately unmakes that decision.

‘So, the Mymble,’ he says, aiming for nonchalance and missing entirely by the way the Joxter raises one eyebrow at him. ‘Still stuck on her, then, old chap?’

The Joxter’s whiskers twitch.

‘I’m not stuck.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Meaning?’

Perhaps, another creature might’ve left it at that. Shrugged off what is clearly the path to some sort of ruin. Moomin, however, being rather singular, carries on because if the Joxter hadn’t wanted to talk about her, why bring her up at all?

‘Well, you’d want to be careful, wouldn’t you?’ Moomin says, not exactly sure why he’s so displeased. Though he suspects the Joxter looking at him like that has some part in it; Moomin doesn’t like to be disapproved of, especially when right.

(Which he often is, being the most well-read).

‘If you’ve got a bee in your bonnet, Moomintroll, I suggest letting it out before it stings,’ the Joxter says; his voice has lost the breeziness so usual to it and Moomin hesitates, suddenly a touch unsure.

‘Not saying she isn’t a fine lady,’ Moomin rushes to say, though the Joxter’s expression doesn’t change. ‘Just that- well, she’s a bit of a busy twist, isn’t she? All those children.’

‘I like children,’ the Joxter replies mildly and Moomin scoffs.

‘I’m sure they’re great sport at a party, but come off it, Jox,’ Moomin says and he nearly laughs; the idea of the Joxter, of all creatures, settling down in some sweet cottage surrounded by children is as silly as the wedding dress he’s wearing. ‘You’re hardly the type to be cosying up for the long haul, are you?’

The very thought of such a thing makes Moomin’s stomach feel like it’s dropped right out of him, down into the frigid water below the hull.

‘Who said anything about the long haul?’ the Joxter asks and sounds very sober indeed. ‘Not me, certainly.’

‘Not you ever,’ Moomin replies, a nervous giddiness brewing. It’s not often he manages to get under the Joxter’s pelt and he’s itching to win. ‘We can rely on you for an honest word about as much as we can rely on the ocean going thirsty. I just think you’re being very silly with this Mymble and it’s not very fair, is all.’

The Joxter taps one boot. It’s rather loud in the tin.

‘I’m being silly?’ The Joxter actually sounds offended. ‘Take a look in the mirror, lad. The Muddler has about fifty to choose from.’

This time Moomin finally does laugh, though he likely oughn’t. But truly!

‘Now, now, Joxter. There’s no need to be snapping heels at me!’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’m not saying anything we don’t all know already. It’s only a bit of common sense.’

‘You wouldn’t know sense if it crawled up your backside and bit it,’ the Joxter retorts, and the smile he gives is very cruel. With a face made of so many sharp points, it’s quite striking and Moomin falters.

‘I’m not… I’m not trying to be unfair to you, dear fellow,’ Moomin says, half-meaning it. The smallest part of him wouldn’t mind being unfair, where the Joxter is concerned. ‘Just saying there’s a proper order to things for a reason. Look at the Muddler and his dame! Going about it as a couple should. Can’t go making future miseries just because of carelessness.’

When Moomin risks a glance at him again, his stomach drops. 

The Joxter looks stricken. Moomin has never seen that look on him before.

‘And what do you know of miseries? Careless or otherwise?’ The Joxter’s paws are coiled tight, into narrow fists. ‘You can see into the future no further than you can see over your own inflated snout.’

‘I suppose we’re not all _blessed_ with such gifts,’ Moomin says, not at all impressed with the Joxter’s attitude. 

The Joxter scoffs meanly and his ears go very flat. ’Or blessed at all, in the case of yourself.’

‘Now, see here!’ Moomin refuses to back down; he hasn’t said anything that isn’t reasonable, after all! ‘There’s no need to be nasty just because you don’t want to think about-‘

‘Looks like you’ve thought plenty for the both of us, ta’ very much,’ the Joxter says waspishly and Moomin blinks, stung. ‘Might be all you’re good for, it seems.’

Moomin gapes, more hurt by that than he’d like to admit.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means for all the reading you’re so boastful for, there’s barely two pennies of sense in that proud skull of yours to rub together,’ the Joxter says, practically hissing. ‘You’d think at least one word might’ve stuck.’

‘I can certainly think of one for you right now!’

The Joxter visibly shivers with vexation. Moomin has never seen him so undone, and with the addition of being so in a wedding dress, the whole situation is getting very out of paw in terms of surreality.

‘You’re fierce close to getting on my nerves, Moomintroll.’

‘Finally! A taste of your own medicine!’

‘Only thing I’m sick of is your pompous-’

What exactly about Moomin the Joxter finds so pompous is never said, as the Muddler rolls out from under a gather of hideously patterned curtains.

‘Look, look!’ Neither Moomin nor the Joxter do. ‘I found them in my round things collection! Littlest category…’

The Muddler trails off. When Moomin risks a quick glance away from the Joxter’s dark expression, he can see the Muddler is watching the pair of them, eyes going from one to the other like a shuttlecock.

It makes Moomin feel all the more ludicrous for having gotten roped into the petty fight to begin with and he so he stands to his full height to try and bring some dignity back to it all.

‘Oh, no,’ the Muddler says, in the exact same exasperated way Hodgkins says it and their relation is uncanny in moments like this. ‘You’re not rowing again, are you?’

Moomin tuts. The Muddler makes it sounds like he and the Joxter are constantly at it or something, which is ridiculous as Moomin is not at all the argumentative type normally. If anything, the Joxter’s the one making a fuss!

 _Typically_ , Moomin thinks bitterly.

‘Not at all, Muddler,’ Moomin says as breezily as he can. Across from him, the Joxter’s lips twitch. ‘Joxter here is just taking a bit of turn, aren’t you, good fellow?’

‘A turn round the bend if I have to listen to any more of your hot steam,’ the Joxter replies coolly and Moomin’s cheeks fluff up, the kick of annoyance running all the way down his tail.

‘Honestly!’ says The Muddler, looking between the two like he’s suddenly the grown one. Moomin would laugh at the thought if there was any mirth left in him. ‘You shouldn’t say horrid things like that! Either of you!’

‘Nothing said that isn’t deserved,’ Moomin mutters, trying hard not to pout but it sounds rather so much the same.

‘And Moomintroll knows all about what’s deserved,’ the Joxter says, quite unkindly and his teeth show as he speaks, ‘Being as brilliant as he is, of course. How can the rest of us possibly compare?’

Moomin nettles, very close to telling the Joxter that if he doesn’t like how clever Moomin is, then he can sod on off and play merry-misery with the Mymble as much as he likes but the Muddler speaks first.

‘I truly hope dear Fuzzy and I never quarrel the way you two do,’ he opines, sounding very disappointed, ‘I really don’t think couples ought to talk like this. Not very romantic for you to be so mean, is it?’

_‘A couple?!’_

Moomin can hear himself how high his voice goes, for it echoes like a terror in this tin, his shock bouncing back at them, over and over. The Joxter says nothing.

‘We are not- why would you even-?’

Moomin is truly struggling to think of anything to say on this. He thinks it might be this tin; it’s awfully cramped in here, not much air and yes, Moomin thinks, that’s what he needs. He needs some air.

He takes a step towards the ladder, just as the Joxter says in a rush; ‘Moomintroll, look out!’

Moomin doesn’t look and he steps right onto the polo ball, the whole thing spinning underfoot at once and before he understands what’s happened, Moomin is thrown forward, completely unbalanced.

For some reason, the Joxter is much closer than he ought to be and Moomin gets his paw onto the dress. He pulls the Joxter towards him, who swings back the other way in response and they get caught up in a spin. Moomin’s foot gets caught in something and there’s a dreadful ripping noise as they teeter, before crashing to the floor in a heap.

Moomin curses, throwing both paws out to catch himself. The Joxter is less lucky, landing onto his back with a loud _thump!_ right underneath him.

‘Buggering, bastard hell-'

Moomin stops mid-curse, looking down at the Joxter where he lies. Suddenly, the air seems even thinner than it had to begin with.

‘I… I- uh-'

‘Nice catch,’ the Joxter says dully to Moomin’s eloquence, and there’s something like a smile on his face. ‘I think I only cracked the back of my skull. Lucky, sure. No will see that.’

Moomin splutters. ‘Well! It was no better than yours! If that was indeed what you were trying to do!’

‘Only so many times I’d let you fall on your arse before it loses the lustre, Moomintroll. Colour me generous.’

‘I’ll colour you a silly rake,’ Moomin says, extremely conscious of how close they are. The roundness of his stomach presses against all the pokey details of the dress.

Unbidden, the image of the Mymble and her own fabulous dresses come to mind. Moomin remembers how she’d looked at Daddy Jones’ party; that bright, shimmering pink that seemed to glow around her. He remembers how much the Joxter had watched her.

‘Or anything else as… silly,’ he adds, lamely and unsure. He keeps looking, distracted by the wind-chafed red skin of the Joxter’s nose.

The Joxter stares back at him, eyes round and bizarre as always. They’re very blue like this, with the sunlight coming down from above them. The Joxter blinks, and something shifts in his face. The way his whiskers are. Swift like a change in tide, it’s like the Joxter is quite miserable.

‘Oh, you daft, wilful creature,’ he says and Moomin frowns, not following. ‘If only you’d have noticed before.’

‘Before?’ Moomin is confused. ‘Before what? Noticed what?’

The Joxter doesn’t say. Instead, he eyes go up and he tilts his head, showing Moomin his chin.

‘How’s it looking, Muddler?’

Moomin leaps off the Joxter like he’s been scalded. He’s in such a hurry to get back to his feet, he almost topples over again. The Joxter doesn’t move at all; if anything, he lies back to be even more comfortable.

The Muddler steps over to where the Joxter is and Moomin finally notices he’s holding a small, battered jewellery box in his paws. He also notices, to his own mortification, that the end of the wedding dress has been torn almost entirely off in one long, crooked strip.

‘It’s definitely shorter!’ the Muddler says, sounding happy about it. Moomin isn’t sure why; he doubts this is the method the Muddler had in mind. ‘And I can hide all the knobbly bits with these!’

He shakes the box, which rattles as though containing many marbles. Knowing the Muddler, it may well do.

‘Add some bells while you’re at it,’ the Joxter suggests, rolling up with unusual grace. ‘Whistles, too. She can be the whole band!’

‘I think she’d like that!’ The Muddler says with a large smile. ‘We’ve already decided we’re going to have lots of chimes, you know! The wind is so very boring without them, don’t you think? All empty, clear air. Nicer to have something fun and sparkly to it!’

Moomin wrings his paws awkwardly. There’s a horrid, sinking feeling coming upon him as the Muddler talks about the Fuzzy, and their wind chimes. Which must, presumably, go on windows which will likely exist on a house or some kind or other.

Perhaps a house as cosy, and far away, as wherever the Mymble takes the Joxter.

‘Righteo!’ Moomin says in a cheery voice that’s too much so to be genuine, and he claps his paws together. Both the Muddler and the Joxter look at him. ‘I rather think you’ve cracked it, then! Best be off now, myself. There’s something I really- really…’

The Joxter watches him, closely as he ever does and Moomin can’t be out of the tin quick enough.

‘Need to write down,’ Moomin finishes awkwardly, one paw behind him now to try and get a grip on the ladder.

He doesn’t wait for either of them to say anything. He’s already climbing and before long, he’s back out the top of the tin.

It’s much brighter up on deck and Moomin takes a long, long breath of the sea air. _Ah yes,_ he thinks, _that’s much better._

Moomin reckons being around all that mess is bound to make one messy in mind, too. No wonder the Muddler is as barmy as he is. Really, Moomin thinks the poor creature is as close to collapse at any given moment as any of his stacks.

Moomin laughs at that; he’s always been very good for making himself laugh but it dies out quickly. That heavy stone of gloom seems stubborn to shift.

‘Was that you I heard hollering a moment ago?’ Hodgkins asks as Moomin passes him on the way to the bow. There’s a very small pencil in the dip at where his ears folds and a battered notebook in his paws.

‘I wasn’t hollering,’ Moomin says tersely. ‘Joxter was-'

‘Ah. Lover’s tiff, is it?’ Hodgkins sounds bored. ‘You’ll be all right. The two of you always are.’

‘We’re not lovers,’ Moomin grumbles between gritted teeth, but Hodgkins doesn’t seem to be listening. He walks off, frowning down at his notebook.

When Moomin gets to the bow, he just stares out across the pier for a very long time. It’s gone noon, he thinks, and there are a few creatures milling about. Moomin knows it would probably be good fodder to go out and interview some, maybe even get some anecdotes for the book.

Instead, Moomin sits himself down on a coil of ropes. He beats his tail anxiously off the deck, regretting having come here without his pipe first. A smoke would’ve been just the trick right now.

It doesn’t feel like very long before a shadow crosses over, quickly followed by the Joxter who steps right into it as he sits cross-legged on the deck.

Moomin tries not to look at him, but it’s very hard. Moomin is observant by nature and the Joxter, once he starts anyway, moves about quite a bit. Maybe that’s what all his naps are for, Moomin wonders. Building up energy to be a fidgeting menace.

He’s got his coat and hat back, looking closer to normal though none of the buttons are done up. Probably too much work for him, the lazy sod.

‘Here.’

Moomin blinks at the pipe that’s being offered, right under the end of his snout.

‘No, thank you.’

‘It’ll help.’

‘See that in my future, did you?’ Moomin doesn’t mean to be snappy, but it seems he’s still out of sorts.

‘Read it in the tea leaves,’ the Joxter says politely, like Moomin had asked him genuinely. ‘And that terrible slouch to your shoulders.’

Moomin straightens up at once, self-conscious. Then, he takes the pipe. The Joxter roots about in his pocket, coming away with matches and lights it. Once lit, he throws the match down. It smokes on the deck between them.

‘Our boy Muddler does seem pleased, doesn’t he?’ Moomin asks after four or five laps of the water against their boat. The Joxter puts his face in a paw, resting on his knee.

‘Tis a very fine thing,’ the Joxter says and Moomin takes a puff of the pipe, just for something to do. ‘All the more for the amount of pearls he’s going to stick onto that dress.’

‘Was that what he had in the box?’

‘Forget the length, it’s the weight of it that I think will kill his bonnie bride,’ the Joxter says and he looks up, catching Moomin’s eye. He’s smiling. ‘I could barely get it off me at the end. I thought I’d have to wear it forever.’

‘It would’ve been a marked improvement.’

‘You think so?’

‘A fancy wedding dress over that rag you call a coat? Yes.’

The Joxter chuckles. Moomin takes another long breath off the pipe.

‘I guess they were meant to be,’ Moomin says, chewing the bit. ‘Have you seen that Fuzzy on the beach? She gathered so many sea-shells I thought she’d sink into the sand.’

The Joxter scratches his whiskers. ‘There’s no such thing as meant to be, Moomintroll.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me that!’ Moomin blows the smoke from his nose, grey and twisting from the end of his snout. ‘Or I’ll lose all hope for myself!’

‘Is that what you’re hoping for?’ The Joxter sounds genuinely curious. ‘Some great fate to befall you?'

‘You’re the only one who believes in batty nonsense like fate,’ Moomin says, handing the pipe over. The Joxter takes it and puts it to his mouth; doesn’t even bother to wipe it. ‘But love and romance are rather different, don’t you think?’

‘Are they?’ The question blooms in pale smoke.

‘I make my own fate, thank you very much,’ Moomin replies, thinking. ‘I’m the one who got me where I am, after all. Takes talent that, and I’m not about to share it with your old superstitions!’

The Joxter starts to blow rings. They float up and vanish, one after the other.

‘But there are some things we can’t do ourselves,’ Moomin continues and he’s picturing the Muddler and his house again. Somewhere far off from this rickety pier and the Oshun Oxtra. ‘Romance is rather one of them, I’d think. Comes our way or doesn’t.’

‘There’s some we can do ourselves,’ the Joxter says mysteriously. He offers the pipe back over.

Moomin doesn’t take it. ‘You really fancy this Mymble dame, don’t you?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer. He’s tilted his face, so the wide brim of his hat hides his eyes.

‘What will Hodgkins and I do with all the quiet?’ Moomin says, trying to sound airy. But he’s never felt heavier. ‘This sorry old boat is going to get very sensible without the two of you about to add a touch of lunacy.’

‘No one’s going anywhere yet.’

‘Yet?’

The Joxter tuts around the pipe, back in his own mouth. ‘Nothing is ever one or the other, Moomintroll.’

‘I disagree. I rather think something is gone or isn’t.’

‘Or someone.’

‘Or someone, yes.’

‘I’m not gone yet.’

‘But you will be,’ Moomin says, eyes going hot in the corners. He quickly looks back to the pier, to the mingling strangers as they walk and work. ‘I always knew you would be.’

‘Now who’s seeing fortunes?’ the Joxter sighs and a great cloud of smoke comes up from under his hat. ‘Nothing is decided, you know.’

‘If it were you’d hardly tell us, never mind me specifically,’ Moomin says and he makes a show of brushing non-existent dust from his knees. ‘You much prefer surprises.’

‘Most creatures like surprises.’

‘Most do, I suppose.’

Moomin risks looking at him proper again. The Joxter is still hidden by his hat. Moomin wishes he could see his face. It knocks about his chest like something broken.

‘She’s got these wonderful hands,’ the Joxter says, without prompt and in a soft voice. He sits up, answering Moomin’s urge to see him. Moomin almost regrets it now. ‘The Mymble. Fingers twice as wide as mine and long, lovely lines on her palms. My claw can go right down the middle of them, like a record needle.’

The image is very striking. Moomin’s chest goes tight.

‘And she laughs like a gutter,’ he adds, looking to Moomin with a great smile on his face. The pipe drags it down on one side where it’s perched out the corner of his mouth. ‘You know what I mean? It’s like there isn’t enough air for her. How splendid is that, to be a creature so grand?’

Moomin isn’t sure what to say, but it doesn’t matter for the Joxter turns to look out across the water.

‘I think you’d like her, if given the chance.’

‘Do you?’ Moomin isn’t sure. The Joxter laughs.

‘No, actually. But it would be terribly funny to see you try.’

Moomin shoves the Joxter’s shoulder with his nearest paw. The Joxter rolls back, smiling up at him.

‘Maybe I’ll woo her off you,’ Moomin teases as the Joxter rises to his feet, stepping over to the gunwale to tip his pipe. ‘Wouldn’t be so funny then, would it?’

The look the Joxter gives him as he pockets the pipe tells Moomin that it would still be quite funny.

There’s something about him standing there though, in the narrow point of the bow with his coat open. Moomin looks at him, from the top of his hat to the scruffy toes of his boots back again. Moomin is so dreadfully used to seeing him here, just like this.

‘Things never stay, do they?’ Moomin asks, mostly to himself but the Joxter’s ears move beneath his hat.

‘Some things do,’ the Joxter replies, crossing the distance and standing over Moomin. He’s tall, with Moomin sitting like this. ‘Especially that we never gave away to begin with.’

Moomin wonders what he means by that.

Then, the Joxter does something very peculiar. He leans forward and bends. All the way until his chin lands on the top of Moomin’s snout. Moomin starts, but doesn’t move for he’s too surprised to do much. Like this, Moomin can’t look much else but at the Joxter’s water-clear eyes. Though they’re very blurry all close like this.

When he does nothing, Moomin asks quietly; ‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking.’

‘… at what?’

‘The other. If you’d been quicker about it,’ the Joxter replies, which is as enigmatic and thus useless an answer as he’d give to any question.

Just to add to what has already been a peculiar day, the Joxter presses forward by an inch. His nose hits Moomin at the bridge of his own, right between the eyes.

Moomin flushes all the way down to his toes and his fur sticks up, right along his arms and the back of his neck where goose-pimple bloom beneath his pelt. His heart stops like a clock, one narrow hand quivering on a very particular hour…

Before he can say anything though, the Joxter steps away, looking very much like he has no idea the exactitudes of what he’s just done. Moomin suspects he truly might’t- after all, the Joxter doesn’t know as much as he does on other creatures.

‘You better go wash up for tomorrow,’ he says to Moomin, light on his boots as he goes. ‘Can’t have you looking a state at a wedding!’

Moomin watches him go for a moment, quite dazed before he hurries back; ‘Bit rich, coming from you, no?’

‘Perhaps. But only one of us has soot on their nose.’

Moomin frowns, putting a paw to where the Joxter’s chin had been. It does, indeed, come away slightly black.

‘Oh, for the sake of the Booble!’ Moomin cries, shaking his paw like it may shift the dirt. ‘To think for a moment I thought I’d miss you!’

The Joxter gives another of his slow, unnerving blinks.

‘And what a splendid moment it was, too.’

And without another word, he turns and makes his way below deck, humming something that might’ve been familiar if the Joxter ever sang anything in tune.

Moomin watches the space where the Joxter disappears into the boat a long minute after he’s gone, feeling rather like an opportunity has just passed. 

The Joxter does always give the impression of something unfinished. Moomin pities the Mymble, and whatever she may feel when the Joxter leaves her, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, to my dear friend for reading it first and assuring me it all made sense ♡


End file.
